Not Your Madame Bovary
by Ellie 5192
Summary: "Lucien? What's this?" ... He squints at the slip of paper in her hand, but never loses the innocent look on his face. "Well, I do believe that's your payslip" he says, as though she's mad.


_I can't believe my first TDBM fanfic is about Jean's money, but here we are and this is my life now. I hope you all enjoy it anyway._

 **Not Your Madame Bovary**

The day is quiet and peaceful, the afternoon sun warding off the perpetual Ballarat chill just enough to make the house warm and sleepy. It almost shocks him out of a stupor to hear the familiar clip of heals approaching, muted by the rugs on the hardwood floors.

"Lucien? What's this?"

He looks up with his eyes wide in askance, pen poised mid-air over a patient file as she stalks into his clinic. His jacket is slung over the back of his chair and his sleeves are rolled up, and after a long yet uneventful day his hair is starting to lose its hold and turn a little bit curly at the edges. She tries to ignore that in favour of raising her eyebrow and gesturing with the offending item in question.

He squints at the slip of paper in her hand, but never loses the innocent look on his face.

"Well, I do believe that's your payslip" he says, as though she's mad.

"I know it's my payslip, I've seen a payslip before. I'm just curious as to why I got one this week?"

It's been ten days since they returned from a short weekend honeymoon down on the coast, and so far the only marked change in their routine has been where she sleeps. Their days feel as they always did, him attending patients or autopsies and Jean keeping the house running smoothly lest he burn it down, and if there's a lingering touch or a quick kiss between them, well, that's just an added bonus to having normalcy prevail. Truthfully he hadn't given the payslip a second thought, merely signed it as he usually does along with all the other outstanding bills and paperwork.

His brow crinkles in confusion. "Because… you normally get paid on a Wednesday?" he says, pausing intermittently, she's sure, for dramatic effect.

She looks a bit taken aback, and he knows her well enough to see she's mildly uncomfortable as she mimics his stilted tone. "Well yes. But I thought, now, given the circumstances…"

She gestures between the two of them with the hand holding the piece of paper, as though he was not acutely aware that he's wearing a wedding ring again, and he smiles as he realises what she's implying. His look is indulgent, and although he knows it would be a reasonable question coming from anyone else, he marvels that she still hasn't quite worked out all his secrets.

"Jean" he says, his tone warm and his gaze loving. She relaxes just a fraction in response to him. "Just because we're married doesn't mean you no longer receive an income"

She rolls her eyes a little – out of frustration or self-recrimination he can't tell – and takes a seat in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. His face remains soft, watching her war with something inside herself, and waiting patiently for her to figure it out enough to talk to him. She levels him with a stern look that he knows is mostly for show.

"I can't very well get paid by my husband for keeping my own house, now can I? How will that look?"

He smirks at her, drops his pen on the desk, and leans back in his chair.

"Why not?" he asks. She can tell immediately that he's teasing her, and she doesn't like it.

"Lucien, be reasonable, it's my own home. Receiving money feels… dirty… somehow"

He sits straight again, a small frown on his face.

"Do you… want to look for employment elsewhere?" he asks, uncertain and just a little bit hurt at the thought. Of course, if she wanted to be out of the house and busy somewhere else he wouldn't dare stop her, but the idea of not being near each other each day leaves him feeling quite bereft. They have such a good rhythm together, and being able to talk with her at all hours – about work, their children, their impending delayed second honeymoon to Europe – while they take tea in the sunroom is a highlight of his day.

"No" she says on a breath, shaking her head slightly as though the thought had never occurred to her. Maybe it hadn't, which makes him feel better. "No, I just… it feels silly to… "

She trails off, not even sure what she was referring to or why she feels this way; just that being paid to clean her own house, even if it is what she's been doing for years, doesn't seem quite right. She also feels awkward about taking her own husband's money for doing simple domestic chores, though he wouldn't know where to start with such things himself. And perhaps part of her is sensitive that they shouldn't uphold too much of their old relationship now that they're married, but little of their dynamic has changed much at all, so saying such things seems petty.

"It's just a little cleaning" she says, not quite able to articulate everything she's thinking but hoping he understands anyway.

"Jean" he says, and he leans forward again to rest his forearms on the desk and level her with a look that, if not for already being seated, would make her knees weak. She meets his look head-on. "You do far more than simply vacuum the carpets"

She purses her lips, not quite a smile but an acknowledgment and small thanks that he noticed at all.

"Aside from dealing with my antics, you are my receptionist during working hours, and my assistant in all manner of things. Perpetual answerer of phones" he quips, and they both smile a little bit. "This house would fall down around my ears without you"

"Oh. Well"

She shrugs one shoulder in a manner that might be haughty, as though to downplay herself, except that he can see through her and knows she's pleased that he hasn't dismissed or diminished the role she plays in the household. She's a proud woman, and works hard to keep a house that reflects that, and although he could have easily drunk himself dead when he first came back to Ballarat, Jean kept him steady whether she wanted to or not. Whether out of duty to his father or genuine concern for the prodigal son, he can't say, but it's under her watchful eye that his rough edges have softened and his heart has settled firmly back in his childhood home with her by his side. There's no remuneration in the world that could express his gratitude for that.

"No no, I mean it" he says, waving a single hand. "I would be absolutely lost without you"

"I know you would" she says, a little softer and with a smile bordering on tender. "You'd forget your own head if it wasn't attached"

He swallows a laugh. "Quite right"

He looks away for a moment, enjoying her teasing as he gathers his next thought. He feels distinctly that what he's going to say is bound to come out wrong, but it needs to be said anyway, and hopefully Jean accepts the spirit of the thing and forgives him any transgressions.

"Jean, no amount of money could compensate the time you dedicate to me, my work, and this home. You keep everything… straight. But you are not a kept woman, nor are you my slave"

Her look changes just enough that he can practically hear her say _and you better not forget it_ , and he fights the urge to laugh. She may be old-fashioned in her views of the home, but she is also a working woman and has striven to provide a life for herself and her boys. Jean would never accept a position of unpaid work, even if her expectations of married women include just that. He ponders her life on the farm – all those hours of labour she must have endured with no fuss or praise – and he knows why she is smarting over the payslip. So instead of laughing at her expression he becomes very gentle – quiet in that way they are with each other when there is nobody else around.

"You are my wife" he says. His voice cracks, just a little. Just enough. Her expression shifts again and he feels it in his bones. "I never want to take you for granted, and I only want the best for you"

She loses all her bluster at his words and reaches out to take one of his hands in hers, because she can now. Because even if someone were to barge through the door, they are married now, and she can hold her husband's hand as many times a day as she sees fit. She's never been especially demonstrative, but with him it feels like making up for lost time, and she partakes in these shows of affection as often as he does just to show that he's not alone in the depth of his affection.

He takes her hand in both of his, stroking his thumb over the back of it for a moment. Then he raises her hand to his mouth and kisses the back of her fingers, the corner of his lips grazing the raised edge of her engagement ring. She watches him intently, her love written all over her face in the way she can't look away from him, and they hold each other's eyes as he lets his lips linger on her skin. The moment lasts barely a few heartbeats, yet feels like a lifetime.

"Now" he says, straightening himself, gently placing her hand back on the desk as though holding it any longer may lead to something untoward. "As to your…" He gestures to the paper in her other hand. ".. grievance"

"I don't mind being paid for my hours in the practice" she concedes, clearing her throat. Having her own money is far more dignified than asking him for a few pounds every time she wants something as mundane as fabric for a new dress, and she's too independent to give that up after so long on her own. And besides, being his medical receptionist is genuinely part of her daily tasks, so it only seems fair to be paid for that.

"But surely not as your housekeeper anymore" she adds, shaking her head a fraction.

"Very well" he replies, nodding. "Then consider this both your salary for your position as my receptionist… and a marital allowance"

He braces himself. She makes a choked sound in her throat, her mouth falling open, outraged and incensed all in one, and he fights very hard to keep the self-satisfied smirk off his face. He looks around his desk, feigning organising his papers as she blusters, and he tucks his hands in his vest pockets for a moment for show. When he looks back her brows are deeply furrowed but her eyes are wide, and how she manages that particular expression he'll never know, but rarely does he feel safe under that look.

"I hear some husbands do that? Give their wives money each week?"

She huffs madly at him. "I should smack you for that"

He is suddenly reminded of poisonous cake, and the memory of her slap is enough to mollify him. He knew he'd end up saying something outrageous, even if it seemed funny in the moment. He smiles, his hands unconsciously raising in a pacifying motion, and it's enough to stop her standing up and walking out on him.

"Jean" he says, somewhat serious again. Her lips purse and one eyebrow quirks up a bit, but she doesn't move. "I don't care how you want to define it or what you want to tell people. But marrying me is not going to be the reason you have less in your life when you bring so much to mine. So there"

She stares at him for a moment, summing him up, and though his tone was not harsh it was definitely final, almost petulant in its decisiveness. Certainly unwavering. He doesn't look away, much as her silent assessment always disarms him, but he does lose some of his confidence and turns almost sheepish, like a chastised child. She stands without responding to that, but something in her manner tells him she has accepted his conditions, and he considers that maybe his face betrayed just how serious he is about this.

She taps the paper against her hand twice, thinking, and then braces one hand on the desk between them as she leans forward towards him. He meets her half way from his place in is chair, instinctively and without preamble, and they share a gentle kiss that is far too short.

"I could never have less in my life while I've got you, Lucien" she says, looking him straight in the eye. He smiles. He can't respond for being totally overcome, but he thinks she knows anyway.

She stands straight, gives him a look that is not quite a smile, and then turns and walks back towards the door. She stops at the threshold and turns, one hand holding the frame. He's still looking at her, and she's not the least bit surprised, meeting his gaze with confidence.

"Roast for dinner" she says, eyebrows raised. It's almost a question, but not really; he'll eat what she makes him, and he'll be happy about it no matter what.

"Very good" he replies, picking up his pen again and looking at his patient report. He feigns seriousness in front of his papers, but the quirk of his lip and the light in his eye gives away his delight. She gives him a secret little smile before she leaves, her amusement finally breaking through, and not even a near miss while chopping the veggies can wipe it from her face for the rest of the day.


End file.
